Morag busied herself putting the room to rights.
She was aware of bright eyes following her as she moved about. Presently she came over to the sofa and stood there, looking down at him. Her heart turned over in her breast—how pretty he was, she thought. She would like a little son—a little son with dark hair—not red, like her own fiery mop, but dark and smooth—a little son with a pale face and dark eyes.
“Talk to me, Morag,” he said. “At least if you’re not too busy.”
“I am not busy,” Morag said. “MacAslan’s dinner is on. There is little for me to do.”
He made room for her on the sofa, and she sat down on the edge of it, settling the rug about his slim body.
“Tell me a story,” said Richard.
“Och, now—and what would I be telling you about?”
“Anything,” he said, looking at her eagerly. He knew from her face that she was thinking of something to tell him. and only wanted a little persuasion. “Do tell me a story, Morag. I don’t mind what it’s about. I like all kinds of stories.”
Like most of her race she was a born story-teller, and she was quite willing to be persuaded. “Well now,” she laid. “Well now, perhaps I might be telling you about my uncle—would that do?”
Richard nodded, his eyes intent on her face.
Morag clasped her hands round her knee and leaned back a little; she shook her hair back from her face and began:
“Well, you must know that my uncle lived in a wee bothy, close by a fairies’ hill. You will have seen the fairies’ hill on the other side of the Big House—it is a green round hill—round like a bee-skep. Well then, the fairies’ hill where my uncle was living was like that one, so you will be knowing what it was like. My uncle was knowing it was a fairies’ hill and he was careful not to offend the Little People. He was putting out milk for them at night, and a handful of meal when he could be sparing it, and he did not gather his kindling in the woods close by, but took care to gather it where he would not be troubling the Little People. Och, he was very careful at first! But, as time went by, my uncle was not so careful. He had lived beside the Little People for so long and they had not harmed him—he was beginning to think there was no harm in them at all. So one day, when he was tired with working and the kindling had run short for his fire, he went into the woods on the hill and gathered some sticks. The Little People might not have been minding so much for the one time, but my uncle went again. The Little People had not harmed him the first time, so he went a second time and a third time—and the Little People were angry.”
“Is it true, Morag?” asked Richard excitedly. “Are there really fairies living in the round green hill?”
“Och, no, it is not true,” Morag said. If she had really believed in it herself she would not have told him. She was of the transition generation, the generation which neither believes nor disbelieves. Her parents believed in the legends and superstitions of the countryside with implicit faith—her children, if she had any, would be complete sceptics.
“But if it was your uncle it must be true,” Richard urged her eagerly. “If it was your very own uncle it happened to—”
“It is true for me,” she said thoughtfully. “But it is not true for you, Richard. For you it is chust a story that Morag is telling you—chust that and no more.”
“But if it is true it must be true for everybody.”
She shook her head. “No, it is not, then,” she told him. “It is true for me, for it was my uncle. For you it is chust a story.”
“Well, go on,” he said. “What happened when the Little People were angry?”
“They came out at night from their little houses inside the hill,” Morag said, “and they came down to the bothy where my uncle was sleeping, and they took away the good that was in everything. And then it was a bad way my uncle was in, for the walls of the bothy did not be keeping out the wind and the rain any more—the wind and the rain did be blowing through the little house, and the—”
“But how?” Richard said, interrupting the tale again. “How could it, Morag?”
“Well,” she said, “and it is quite simple, then. The wee house was there, and it was looking chust the same as ever, and the walls were there to feel with your hands, but there was no goodness in the walls any more, to keep out the rain and the wind, and the rain and the wind were blowing through the little house the same as if it was blowing across the moor.”
“Did you see it?” Richard enquired.
“No, I did not see it, but my father saw it, and he would be telling us about it when we were children. Often and often he would be telling us. But that was not the only thing that happened. The Little People took away the good that was in the meal, so that the meal had no goodness in it at all, and they took away the goodness that was in the cow, so that there was no goodness in the milk. Well, my uncle he got thin and pale, and there was Fear in his eyes (for he did be knowing what the meaning of it was), so that when his friends went to see him they could not talk to him in comfort. They would sit with him in his little house, talking of this and that—but never talking of the Little People or what was happening to my uncle, for that would not be lucky at all—they would sit there with the collars of their coats about their ears for the wind that was blowing through the walls. And when they would be coming away they would be whispering to one another, and crossing their breasts for the fear that was in that place. Well, one day when they went to see my uncle he was not there, and there was no sign of him in the little field, nor in the byre. Only the cow was in the byre, lowing with pain, for she had not been milked that day, and her bag was full. And everybody knew that the Little People had come at last and taken my uncle away to be their servant to them in their houses; to tend their cattle and to draw water and hew wood. A year and a day passed, and my uncle came back, but there was nothing in him at all when he came back; no memory of what had happened to him, and no sense, no sense at all. He came to my home to live, for he could not be taking care of himself any more. We were in fear of him, for there was a strangeness in him—even those who did not be knowing his story knew the strangeness and turned from him with fear.”
“But they were bad fairies, then!” Richard cried.
“I think they are neither bad nor good—or perhaps they would be both,” Morag said in a puzzled manner. “For there are good things they are doing as well as bad things when they do be liking people.”
“I thought fairies were good,” said Richard. “I thought they were good and pretty and flew about with wings—”
“Och, no!” Morag replied. “Those are not real fairies at all—those are chust bairns’ tales. The Little People do not be having wings. They are like us, only not so big. Down below in their hills they have their homes, and their homes are like our homes. They have fires and beds, and the women cook and spin, and the men take care of the beasts chust like we do. They have no need of wings, the Little People, for they can fly on the wind; and they move about without noise so we cannot be hearing them—and we cannot be seeing them—”
Morag stopped and glanced nervously over her shoulder. She was moved to sudden terror by her own tale.
“Then it’s true,” Richard said, his eyes shining with excitement. “It’s true—it must be true if it happened to your uncle and you saw him—”
“Och, no—it’s chust nonsense! You must not be believing it at all, Richard. It is chust Morag’s story to pass the time away.”
She was half sorry, now, that she had told the story, and more than half afraid. It was not lucky to speak of the Little People—they do not like to be spoken of—and Morag had spoken of them to this child who was not of her own people.
She had started to tell the story in a spirit of disbelief, to while away the time for a sick child—but the story had gripped her in the telling of it, and she believed it now, just as she had believed it when she was a child and the old crazy man had come to live with them in their house. She could see, again, his vacant, staring eyes, and the queer, vague movements of his wrinkled hands, and she felt again the strange cold shudder of fear creeping up her back.
“Och, now, look at the time!” she exclaimed, jumping up and trying to shake off the discomfort that had invaded her being. “I must be putting on the potatoes for MacAslan’s dinner—”
* * * * *
When Linda returned from her walk she found Iain working at the boat. He looked up and saw her coming—he had been watching for her for the last half-hour, with only one eye upon his work. He had thought of all that he would say to her, but, now that she was here, the carefully prepared phrases left him, and there seemed to be nothing he could say. How could he excuse his behaviour? She would be angry with him and justly angry—the child had been left in his care. He put down his hammer and went to meet her.
“Has Richard gone home?” she asked.
His pulses fluttered again at the sound of her voice—how was he to tell her? He must not frighten her, must not make too much of Richard’s collapse. He fixed his eyes on her shoes—neat brown brogues, they were, and the feet inside them were narrow and well-shaped, with arching insteps.
“Where is Richard?” she said again.
“In my house,” Iain replied, finding his voice with some difficulty. “The sun was very hot—I should have seen it was too hot for him—”
“Do you mean he’s ill?” she enquired, her voice sharpened by anxiety.
“He was ill,” said Iain. “He seems all right now. It was just the heat, I think. He never told me it was too much for him. He is such a plucky little fellow—”
She was hurrying up the path, but, at his last words, she turned and faced him. “You really think that?” she asked breathlessly.
“What?”
“That he is plucky.”
“Of course. Most children would have given in. Richard went on until he collapsed.”
“Collapsed!” she echoed, with returning anxiety.
“He fainted,” Iain told her, speaking in a low voice, for they were near the door now and he did not want Richard to hear them discussing him. “He fainted. It was the heat. I can’t tell you how sorry I am—it was all my fault—I should have seen—I carried him into the house and he was all right in a few minutes, but we made him keep quiet.” Iain opened the door as he spoke and showed her into his house.
Richard was sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was carrying on a conversation with Morag who was in the kitchen. Iain was thankful to see that he looked quite himself again.
“Can I get up?” Richard said, smiling at his mother. “Can I get up now? I promised Morag I wouldn’t get up till the Boatmender said I could—so can I now?”
His mother nodded.
He ran across the room and jumped into her arms. “Did you have a nice walk?” he asked her with his arms round her neck.
“A lovely walk.”
Iain watched the little scene with a strange pain. They were so much to each other—these two—so alike in their slim grace, so near to each other. Was there room for another in their hearts? Iain felt left out of it, he felt like an intruder in his own house—it was absurd to feel that, but he couldn’t help it. Perhaps her husband is alive, he thought, and yet, somehow, I feel she is free. How am I to find out? I must know—I can’t bear not to know.
He pulled a chair forward for her, and she sat down with the boy on her knee.
“I hope he’ll be all right,” Iain said anxiously.
“I’m fine,” said Richard, smiling. “That’s what Morag says—I’m fine. Morag is Mr. MacNeil’s wife and she cooks the Boatmender’s dinner for him. She’s nice and pretty and I like her—”
Morag came in and overheard the last words. She blushed and smiled attractively. She certainly was pretty, Linda thought. What was she doing here—besides cooking the Boatmender’s dinner—it seemed queer. Morag was carrying a tray with tea and a glass of milk and some ginger-nuts.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” Linda exclaimed. “It’s almost lunch-time—”
“But you must,” Iain told her seriously. “Morag knows that you can’t go into a Highlander’s house without partaking of his hospitality.”
“That is so,” said Morag, smiling. “It would not be the right thing at all—”
They had tea together and Richard drank some milk. Iain was more comfortable with her now—now that she was actually in his house, partaking of his food, she was no longer a dream. The fairy woman had put on mortality. He watched her white teeth crunching the hard biscuit, and he watched the lovely line of her neck as she turned her head, and the softness of her eyes as she spoke to her boy. He told himself she was all he had thought—and more. She was perfect; she was his; she must be his—nothing could stand in the way.
At last she stood up and said they must go.
“Come, Richard—are you feeling all right?” she said. “Well enough to walk home?”
“But he must have a horse,” Iain cried.
“A horse?” queried Richard. “Have you got a horse? Where’s the horse, Boatmender?”
“Here,” said Iain. He stooped down and made a back for the boy.
“Hurrah!” cried Richard, jumping on to the Boatmender’s back. “Hurrah, I’ve got a horse!”
Iain pranced round the room like a very high-spirited horse indeed—it was great fun, this.
“Well,” said Linda doubtfully, “are you sure he won’t be too heavy for you?”
They went out together and struck up towards the trees. The child was light and he clung with his knees—there was no weight in him at all. Iain felt he could have walked miles with Richard on his back, he liked the feel of the soft arms round his neck. He felt nearer to the mother through the child’s nearness.
Linda went ahead up the rough path through the woods. She stepped, surefootedly, from root to root, raising herself lightly on the ball of each foot; springing over the moist patches like a deer. That was how a woman should walk, Iain thought; and her ankles were right, too—strong and fine (but not too fine) as ankles should be.
“How quiet it is!” Linda said, pausing for a moment on the top of the hill before the path dropped down to Ardfalloch jetty. “How quiet and—and golden!”
It was very hot and still. The skies seemed to press down upon the glen. Across the loch came the sound of a cart rumbling over a stony road. They heard the lurch and rattle as the heavy wheels rocked to and fro, the squeak of the axle.
Iain stood still beside her. He thought: This is perfect.
“Are those pigeons?” Linda asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” he said. “Listen.”
They listened.
“I like it,” Richard said softly. “It’s a sad kind of song—but nicely sad, don’t you think?”
They went on together. There was a bond between them now—a bond between the three of them. There was no need to talk, the woods spoke to them, and the golden sunshine bathed them all in one radiant bath. Iain thought: if the place were mine—if I had not let it—if I could say to her “This is mine,” and take her, and show it to her . . . but if I had not let it she would not be here. . . .